Fernald's Folly
by Phoebonica
Summary: It's their third game in a row. There's nothing else to do...


Disclaimer: Daniel Handler owns the Series. I just own my speculations.

This was a birthday gift for the volunteer known as Aluminium Donut.

**Fernald's Folly**

People occasionally ask him how the hell he can shuffle cards when he doesn't have any hands. Not very often, though, because you'd be _amazed_ at how quiet most people get faced with someone who has two very sharp hooks at the ends of his arms. When they do ask, he usually just glares at them and says, "Practice". This is true, although he doesn't say the next part of the answer, which is _I have a lot of free time_. If he elaborated at all, they might think he wanted to keep talking, and there are very few aspects of his life that he wants to talk about and even fewer that are anybody else's damn business.

Most people know when to shut up.

She looks up from the table and asks, "Do you want me to help you with that?"

"I can manage," he snaps, a little harder than he meant to. She pushes her glasses back up on her nose and sighs.

"Aye."

It's their fourth game in a row. There's nothing else to do, unless they wanted to go up to the rowing room and listen to the tap dancing princess give her illiterate dance recital (how can anyone spell gorgeous with an M? How?), and anyway they haven't played for a long time. He tried to teach some of the others – Flacutono, the big guy/girl/whatever – but no one was really interested. Not that either of _them_ could – anyway, he gave up after a while. Played a lot of solitaire. He got pretty good.

But he doesn't have to do that any more. Because now Fiona's here.

"Fernald?"

"A – Yeah?"

"…Nothing."

Nothing. Yeah, right.

They haven't spoken, not really. He showed her around the sub, tried to give her some idea what to expect. Braced himself to answer a million questions that he knew she'd want to ask, but she barely asked any of them. She seemed –

_Hesitant_.

That's not like Fiona. That's not like Fiona at all.

"Are we –"

"Yeah?"

"Are we nearly there yet?"

"We'll get there when we get there," he snarls at her, and she looks down at the table again, blinking behind her glasses, and he can tell what she's thinking. _That's not like Fernald_.

He almost apologises, almost reaches out and rests a hook awkwardly on her shoulder which is about the most comforting thing he can do these days, but he doesn't. Because then she'd try to talk about it, and there's nothing to say. Yeah, he's changed. He changed a long time ago, and she'd better get used to it. And if she can't deal with the way he is now she should have stayed on the _Queequeg_ with that four-eyed bookworm boyfriend of hers and read up on mushrooms and Hemingway like a good little volunteer.

Except he knows perfectly well why she didn't.

He's her brother. He's her big brother Fernald who used to tuck her in at night and read poetry to her when she was too small to turn the pages for herself. And as far as she's concerned that's still who he is. Nothing's changed.

Everything's changed. He doesn't even go by Fernald any more, for God's sake. The last time anyone called him that was –

_- two weeks ago_ –

"_Damn it!_"

The cards slip out of his hooks and flutter down to the floor, and he growls and ducks under the table, trying to gather them up. They won't stay still just like everything else in his lousy life and why the hell did he have to think about that right now? Why did he have to think about it at all, why couldn't he just have forgotten about it or better yet not cared in the first place? Of all the people he could have started feeling guilty about, why did it have to be Jacques bloody Snicket? It's not like he'd never killed anyone before.

_Yeah, but that one was_ personal.

Which is no explanation. In fact it's the _opposite_ of an explanation because it makes everything make even less sense than it already did. He _wanted_ Snicket dead, he had a personal vendetta against the guy, so why when he should be celebrating does he feel like –

Fiona's head appears below the edge of the table. "Are you sure you don't want any help with that?"

He nearly tells her to sit up and let him get on with it, but it's _dark_ under here and so far all he's succeeded in doing is making a hole through the three of clubs. Reluctantly he shifts over so she can slide under the table. She crawls under one or the benches and he turns away a little so she can't see his face, because what's he going to say if she asks him what's the matter? _I'm just thinking about the guy we killed a couple of weeks ago_?

He didn't even have to be there, it could have been any of them, Olaf just needed a second person and he'd offered to go just so he could see the look on Snicket's face. Just to be there when he realised what was going to happen to him. He didn't normally _enjoy_ killing people as such, although it was part of the job and he took a certain pride in doing it effectively, but he was going to have a _lot_ of fun watching that hypocritical bastard get what was coming to him. Only it didn't work out quite how he expected.

He'd expected Snicket to run. He'd been ready for that and he blocked him and pinned him up against the cell wall, just like they'd planned. He expected the look of horror on the man's face and the way he said _Fernald?_ as if it was a surprise to him somehow, and he leaned in so their faces were almost touching and said _Not any more_, which would have been followed up with a slash across the face just for emphasis if Olaf hadn't grabbed his arm and hissed _Don't be stupid, I told you. We have to make it look like the baby did it_. He backed off, because the boss was the boss and you had to do things his way even if he _had_ just made you look like an idiot (and why were they framing a one year old anyway, what kind of plan was that?) And he _knew_ Snicket was going to get self-righteous at that point because they all did, all the so called good guys, they always had to look all horrified as if they'd never even _consider_ doing something so terrible when you both knew the only difference between the two of you was that you admitted what you were capable of. So he expected the disgusted expression, and the quiet _Still ruining innocent lives, Olaf?_ He expected Olaf's response, the raised eyebrow, the smirk as he stepped forward and whispered _That crybaby brother of yours should have learned to keep his mouth shut._

He didn't expect the look on Snicket's face. Didn't expect him to suddenly look so helpless and despairing, to go limp and stagger back against the wall. Didn't expect to have to turn away and look out the window and hope like hell that Olaf didn't notice. Didn't expect the image that had just flashed into his mind, short black hair and triangular glasses that he hadn't thought about in years. It _hurt_, damn it, it felt like he'd just been kicked in the stomach, and when they were done and they'd gone back to the tents he spent the rest of the night tossing and turning trying to block out the mental pictures and the conviction that he knew exactly what Jacques Snicket's last thought on earth had been. _I am never going to see my brother again._

It wasn't fair. The fact that they'd started losing troupe members after that hadn't helped any. Every minute that his mind wasn't on work he'd caught himself thinking _Where is she now? Does she even remember me?_ and seeing her again didn't make things any better. She was –

- staring at him over the top of her glasses. "Fernald, are you okay?"

He'll have to say something.

He clears his throat. The voice he hears when he speaks is dry and hoarse, not his own voice at all. "Fiona, you –"

"Aye?"

"You know we're the bad guys, right?"

She narrows her eyes. "You said there weren't any."

"That's not exactly what I said. I said there wasn't a wrong side of the schism to be on. I didn't say this was the right side."

"I'm not sure I understand."

"Fiona –" he takes a deep breath – "we kill people. _I_ kill people. We're the ones who burn down houses, who break up families. We…" She reaches out and tries to put a hand on one of his hooks, but he jerks it away. "You know where we're going?"

"Aye. Of course."

He puts a hook on each of her shoulders. Looks her straight in the eyes. "Yeah, well when we get there Olaf's going to torch the whole place. You understand? That means _everyone in there dies_. Including your boyfriend."

"Klaus isn't my –"

"Goddammit, Fiona, would you stop acting like a kid for five seconds?" She flinches. She _is_ a kid, why did he say that? _Even your own sister's afraid of you. Way to go, Fernald._

"Look, when Olaf hands you a match, which way are you going to throw it? That's all I want to know. Whose side are you going to be on?"

She answers without faltering. Without hesitation. "Yours."

"That's it? You're part of the troupe now, just like that? When Olaf says jump, you jump? Is that what -"

She cuts him off. Puts a hand on his shoulder. "No, Fernald. I didn't say I'm going to be on Olaf's side. I said I'm on _yours_."

"…What?"

"You're my brother," she says, and puts her arms round him. He hugs back awkwardly, careful not to jab her.

_You don't even know me,_ he thinks.

But he's got a horrible feeling she might.

After a while she breaks the hug and forces a smile. Holds up the pack of cards, all neatly shuffled together. "You want another game?"

"I suppose so," he says. He pulls himself up from under the table, blinking in the sudden light. "What else are we going to do?"


End file.
